I’m not a big dog lover. Anyone who knows me, or who read my very first post ever – The Duke Disaster – knows that. But my husband loves them. He’s always had a dog from the time he was a boy throwing a paper route, and I can’t imagine him ever being without one.

He is passionate about Labradors in particular and hunting labs in specific. He likes the British kind, the ones with the large block head and wide nose – no American type with the long skinny nose for this man. To see him with his dog Duke is to see the visible definition of man’s best friend. I’ve often described him as a lab trapped inside a man’s body, and that’s not far from the truth!

Duke turned 13 this month. I can still remember the year of his 5th party when I actually put a party hat on him for a few seconds to celebrate. There will be no party hats this year. He still looks beautifully noble, and he can still get around under his own power (except for getting into and out of the truck) . He still eats and goes to the bathroom (rather freely) and wags his tail and rolls on his back in the soft green grass. He still looks with anxious longing every time the door closes with Paul on the other side. But his cataracts have made him almost blind; his hearing is gone, his breathing is labored. And his legs, especially those back ones, can only support him for short periods of time; more often than not they go out from under him. It is painful to watch him navigate the back steps, and the one time I saw him partially fall just about broke my heart.

The time is coming for Sir Duke. We can both see it even though we don’t want to accept it. He’s begun to sneak upstairs again, only now he isn’t destructive, he’s either disoriented or just sharing Pete the Cat’s water. I don’t know how much longer he will last, and I do not look forward to my husband adjusting to life without Sir Duke.

So I was glad to hear he made the call yesterday. The call I’ve been encouraging him to make for over a year now. The call to a friend who does lab rescue, asking her to find him the perfect British breed lab who was made for duck hunting. A dog old not old enough to aggravate Duke in his declining months but to be more of a companion. A dog who will never replace Sir Duke – no dog ever could – but a dog who will build his own special place in his new master’s heart.

I’ll keep you posted on the progress.

PS – Pete is fine.